


I Am What You Make of Me

by SangreFria



Series: The Soulmates Series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SangreFria/pseuds/SangreFria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knew he'd get to the bottom of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am What You Make of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenklu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/gifts).



> Written after the airing of Season 6, Episode 8 "All Dogs Go to Heaven"; it's a coda about soulless!Sam that turns into blatant, indulgent fix-it fic.

Dean was soaking wet, covered in mud, and chilled to the bone. And he couldn't figure out how a cakewalk salt-and-burn like this one could have gone so _wrong_. Leftover adrenaline was making his hands shake as he fought with the motel lock, Sam a quiet presence at his elbow. The door finally gave and Dean nearly fell into the room, the stale air forcing a shiver down his spine.

Sam, as dry as Moore County for reasons that make about as much sense, waved him toward the shower and set to unloading the car. Dean managed to get the bathroom door closed before he stumbled. He grabbed hold of the towel rack and spent about a minute just breathing.

No, seriously, what the ever-loving _fuck_ happened out there?

If he's being honest with himself, this isn't the first time that he's finished a job feeling about ready to drop where he stood. All sorts of little things have been subtly _off_ for the last couple of weeks, and just about everything had been thrown out of whack. Was he just starting to get old? Losing his edge? He reached over to turn on the shower, setting the heat to as close to scalding as a two-bit little place like this could dish out, and started the long process of peeling off his sopping clothes. No, whatever it was, it wasn't just Dean. Something was up with Sam, too.

Sam and him weren't gelling the way they used to, of course, but that was no big surprise. Dean expected left, Sam went right; so what else was new? But it was making Dean have to run extra hard, dig twice as deep, jump that much higher just to get the job done right. And it was driving him _nuts_.

Most of the mud had already dried onto his skin, caked thick under his fingernails. He stepped under the steamy spray and started scrubbing for his life. Dean knew he'd get to the bottom of this. But first, he might just sleep for a _week_.

 

\---------

 

Sam paced a slow circuit around the room, carefully checking his handiwork. Salted windows and doors, hex bags under Sam's pillow, Dean's favorite .45 under his. He had to be extra careful about their security on the nights he wanted to sleep; Dean would be too exhausted to sense a threat, and Sam wouldn't be up keeping watch.

Dean shuffled out of the bathroom, moving stiffly like an old man. Sam knew that he was responsible for Dean feeling so sore, so worn out, but he couldn't feel the guilt. Without the ability to feel, logic was Sam's guide. And logically, what he'd been doing to Dean made sense. As long as Dean's body is never pushed past the point of harm, it's fine. Dean isn't actually hurt, and Sam gets something that he needs.

Once he's pressed up close to Dean, Sam knows he'll feel the searing guilt from this. For putting himself before Dean. For manipulating him. For keeping more secrets from him. For putting him through so much strain. For the sore muscles and the aching back. For the worry, the stress. Sam feels all of it like it's his own pain. But those feelings only last until dawn, when Sam wakes and slips out of bed unnoticed. Then it's back to business as usual, and the cycle will eventually repeat itself. Without a soul, Sam can't feel guilty for taking what he needs.

On nights like these, the routine is always the same. Dean takes first shower, and Sam secures the room. Dean falls face-first into bed, and Sam showers. By the time Sam creeps in between the sheets, Dean has been snoring softly for at least twenty minutes. Sam tucks himself up against Dean as close as he can get, skin to skin if possible, and feels his life come rushing back into full technicolor.

The curtains aren't completely closed, and a shaft of light from tonight's half-moon is falling over the bed. Sam can see Dean's bare shoulders rising and falling softly amongst the sheets, and he freezes where he stands, clutching a towel around his waist. This is the first night since Sam started sleeping that Dean has foregone a T-shirt. Just the idea of Sam being able to touch so much of him sets off that ringing stillness in his ears, and he doesn't bother with more than pulling on a pair of boxers after toweling himself dry.

As expected, the sensation of his chest against Dean's bare back is _electric_. It all comes crashing into him at once, and he has to bite his lip to hold in that first gasping breath he takes as the real Sam. When he's this close to Dean, he can be Dean's Sammy.

He takes in all of it. The guilt and the pain. The joy and the hope. The love. Everything, even the pain, is tempered by the pure, desperate _love_ that Dean feels for him, and that he feels for Dean. It's the foundation of this connection between them, and it makes even the most crushing guilt something that Sam can bear.

He wraps his arms around Dean, presses his mouth to the back of his neck, and lets himself drift away.

 

\---------

 

Sam is always reluctant to wake after a night with Dean, so he's made a habit of doing it in a series of stages, working himself slowly up to the agony of having to let go. At first, he lies there with his eyes closed and just breathes. The scent of Dean is everywhere, all around him, heady and soothing. Then Sam moves in to press his face against the closest part of Dean he can find by touch. This morning, he presses his lips to Dean's forehead, feeling his hair tickle Sam's cheeks. Waking up like this is the best feeling in the world, and a contented hum rumbles from deep in his throat.

"Sam."

Every muscle in Sam's body snaps rigid, his eyes flying open and a chill racing over his skin. Dean's looking him straight in the eyes, their heads still sharing the same pillow, and the chill becomes a hot flush. He's been caught, and there's absolutely no excuse for this. "Only one bed in this room has been slept in, Sam." Dean's watching him closely, face carefully blank, and his voice is deceptively calm. "Yours hasn't been touched, and it's not because you just aren't sleeping."

"Dean, I..." Sam was drawing a complete blank, and he was already riding the edge of panic. Even if he had some spectacular lie ready, there's no way that he could feed it to Dean now. His arms were still wrapped around him, and Sam just couldn't do it. As long as Sam was _Sam_ , he couldn't bear to hurt Dean.

Dean's hand moved to press against Sam's chest, and for a split second, Sam could see how this was going to play out. Dean would push him away, and Sam would shut down. _That_ Sam would say something so terribly _wrong_ in this situation, something that could shatter Dean's heart, destroy whatever trust they still have, and that would be that. Dean would never touch him again, maybe even leave him completely, and the real Sam would be lost forever. He'd never get the chance to fix it.

Sam's arms tightened with bruising strength, his eyes burning, as he gasped out the first thing that came to mind. "Dean, _please_!" But when Dean's palm settled, warm and firm over Sam's heart, a sudden calm came over him.

"Hey, Sammy, _shhh_....It's okay." Dean's expression had softened around the eyes, though he was still watching Sam with the same kind of focus he normally gave to loaded firearms. "I can feel it too." The warm glow intensified, pulsing like a heartbeat where Dean's hand touched his chest.

Sam's whole body instantly relaxed, spreading boneless on the sheets. "So that's what all that bullshit was for, huh?" Dean served up his most exasperated "You're _shitting_ me" face. "Sammy, you can't run me into the ground every time you want to feel like a real boy."

For the first time since the day the world almost ended, Sam really smiled at his brother.

" _Dean..._ "


End file.
